Cutting Edge

She already had the key in the outer lock. She turned and pushed, took four long steps to the front door, inserted the key, and turned. Her hand was on the butt of her gun as she listened for any sound. The shower was running upstairs. Relief flooded through her.

The door from the stairs leading to the garage slowly opened. Nora stood out of the potential line of fire, saw that it was Duke, and motioned him inside.

“She’s upstairs,” Nora whispered. “The shower’s running.”

“Her car isn’t in the garage.” Duke locked the garage door behind him and did a security check on the first floor. Hall closet, half bath, kitchen pantry, cabinets. There were not many hiding places on the first floor.

Nora frowned. The air had a strange, cool, moist feeling. She drew her gun and cautiously walked up the stairs, Duke two steps behind her, instincts on full alert. Up here the air was almost wet, leaving an odd, chilling coat on her skin.

As soon as she stepped through the open master bedroom door, with the moisture so thick water dripped down the walls, she feared Quin was dead. Duke motioned toward the open bathroom door. Water had pooled on the floor.

Duke mouthed, Let me, and motioned toward the bathroom.

He obviously thought Quin was dead, too. He wanted to protect Nora from it, and this time she let him.

He peered around the corner, still anticipating an attack.

“Shit,” he said.

A tight moan escaped her lungs as she said, “Quin.”

“No.”

She looked inside. The shower door was wide open, and a naked man lay dead on the tile floor.

Duke said, “I’m checking the rest of the second floor. Wait.”

She looked around the bathroom. The man’s clothes had been loosely folded on the bathroom counter. She walked over and saw there was a nametag on the shirt pocket. Dr. Devon Blair. Quin’s boyfriend. On the floor, wet from the water splashing out of the shower, was the red T-shirt Quin had been wearing earlier that day.

Nora stared at it. What had happened here? Also on the floor was a photograph. Nora didn’t dare touch anything; preserving the evidence was crucial and they’d already walked the entire house and probably contaminated the crime scene. But she bent over to see what it was.

It was a picture of her, defaced with her throat scratched as if it had been slit and her eyes carved out. Quin had snapped it while Nora had been unaware, looking up at the stage after Quin’s college graduation ceremony. Quin had asked her what she’d been thinking that had her looking so pensive, and she’d replied that she was so proud of Quin that it had overwhelmed her for a minute. That wasn’t the complete truth. She had been proud, but more than that, she felt that she’d done what she’d promised Quin and herself-making sure Quin had a solid foundation on which to build her future. With that personal goal completed, Nora had been both elated and sad.

Duke returned. “No one’s here. But you need to see something.”

“She has Quin.” She gestured to the T-shirt.

“I know.” Duke glanced at the photo, at first not recognizing it was Nora, then frowning when he did.

He led her out of the bathroom. He pointed to the dresser. She registered the destruction. All the framed pictures, broken. The photos destroyed. Years of memories that Nora had painstakingly created for Quin because their mother had so few photos of them growing up.

“There is blood on the comforter. Not a lot,” Duke added quickly, “but it was stuffed in the closet. I only moved it to make sure no one was hiding under it.”

Or dead under it.

“Where would she take her?” Nora’s voice cracked. “Not her apartment, so where?”

“We’ll find her.”

Downstairs the bell rang, followed by loud knocking.

The police.

Nora paced the FBI conference room while on hold waiting for Warden Jeff Greene at Victorville to pick up. A dozen agents and analysts were working tonight digging through property records under a variety of names-anyone Maggie might know-phone records, and emails trying to get an idea of where Maggie had taken Quin. Every law enforcement officer in the western U.S. had a memo on Quin’s car with her photo and Maggie’s photo.

An hour ago, just before midnight, Scott Edwards’s truck had been found parked on the street three blocks from Quin’s office. It had been towed to the sheriff’s impound lot. Steve Donovan’s team was going through it now.

They’d already tried to trace Quin’s cell phone. It was in her purse, left behind at her town house. Her car, which she rarely drove, didn’t have GPS or any trackable security device.

Upon arrival at Quin’s town house, the coroner determined that the victim, Dr. Devon Blair, had been dead for several hours, but the exact time would be difficult to determine because the cold water had lowered his body temperature. After talking to hospital staff, they learned he’d left Sutter General at four in the afternoon.

At Maggie’s apartment Duke and Nora, along with three specialists, had meticulously searched for any clue-a receipt, note, journal-that might lead them to where Maggie had taken Quin. There was nothing. In fact, other than a familiar alias on the apartment rental agreement, nothing they had come across even suggested that Maggie O’Dell lived there. ERT went through printing the place and pulling trace evidence, and had felt confident that they could prove that she was there through physical evidence, but the lack of personal belongings suggested Maggie was far more shrewd than most young killers.

She had no credit cards or bank accounts, so tracing plastic or a checking account was out. They ran her father’s credit card and came up dry; it had only been used by him locally.

The pair of agents who had interviewed him yesterday went back and asked for his help, but he refused. He didn’t believe them when he was told that Maggie was under suspicion for murder and kidnapping. He owned no other property in the state, though ownership was certainly not a requirement for Maggie’s purposes. She would pick a place that was private and accessible to the highway. An abandoned cabin or empty vacation home would work for her purposes. Thinking of that, Nora had sent the pair of agents in Lake Tahoe to check on Jonah Payne’s place. That, too, was empty and the police seal undisturbed.

Hans Vigo at Quantico seemed positive that Maggie would contact Nora directly before harming Quin. But it already had been more than six hours.

Nora had done everything she could that night. Making sure every branch of law enforcement had recent photos of Quin, the high school picture of Maggie, and a copy of the more recent picture found in her closet. A description of Quin’s car, Scott Edwards’s truck, sending agents to re-interview students at Rose College, pushing Donovan on the evidence. It was one in the morning and she had nowhere to turn, nothing to do except think about the danger Quin faced.

She did have one more option. Her last option. God knew that she’d never attempt to speak with Lorraine unless she had no other choice. Lorraine might know something about where Maggie was living. Maybe she would help. Quin’s life was at stake; she had to help!

She dialed Warden Greene at the Victorville Federal Penitentiary and worked on controlling the desperation that rose in her chest. If Lorraine knew how scared Nora was, she might clam up just to hurt her. Nora had to prove to Lorraine that this was about Quin. That was the only way she’d help.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Agent English.”

“I’m sorry to drag you from bed, Warden, but it’s an emergency. I need to talk to a prisoner immediately.”

“I know. That’s one of the reasons I took so long. I had Lorraine Wright woken and asked her to take your call. She refused.”

“She can’t!”

“I can’t force her to talk to you.”

Nora rubbed her eyes. Lorraine would never change. Selfish, angry, distrustful. “Please ask her if she knows where Maggie is staying. If she has any idea where she might be living. Tell her that her daughter Quin is in danger.”